


Here at the End of All Things

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Threesome in the Reach [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Future Fic, Multi, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oberyn had tried to explain it in a letter once, how the act of sharing augmented rather than lessened, multiplied rather than divided. Willas had accepted such an idea without truly understanding it but now he understands, now he <i>knows</i>. Together, they are all more than they were. Together they create something new and perfect. In their bed, Willas is as whole and right as he’d ever been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here at the End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece of sorts to our OTHER arranged marriage threesome, **[The Threesome in the North](http://archiveofourown.org/series/25525)**. Works in the series are not in chronological order.

They’ve always come in a pair. Since the moment Willas first met Sansa Stark, Jon Snow has been at her side, quiet and watchful and obviously devoted, much akin to that wolf of his, which would be like a shadow if it weren’t as white as snow. Willas had jokingly called Jon her Queensguard, but he’s learned that it’s not so far from the truth. He accompanies Sansa everywhere, so attuned to her needs that he offers a hand even before she’s rising, fills her glass just as her hand begins to search for it, responds to her thoughts when she’s only just looked at him with a question in her eyes. It’s nearly heady to watch them, moving like perfectly shaped pieces in an invisible machine, working together in the sort of quiet, inobtrusive harmony that could only be forged by time and shared hardship and love. If Ghost is Jon’s bond beast, so it seems that Jon is Sansa’s, and it had taken only brief adjustment for Willas to accept his constant present without thought.

And so it is in everything.

Willas doesn’t entirely remember how they came to the agreement, possibly because he was more than a bit foxed on wine at the time. He’d never been much for drinking before, but Sansa has made him feel freer, easier, more willing to trust himself to the care of others should he fall too deep in his cups. It had been a matter of pride before, to always take care of himself, to never be a burden, even sometimes with those closest and dearest to him. Perhaps it was only that a wife was meant to care for her husband. Or perhaps it was that a wife meant such a different life than what he’d come to expect and accept for himself, always alone, the good-natured heir rendered romantically tragic by the vagaries of life and dependent on his family for care and comfort.

Jon may not have been an expected part of things, but even if Willas hadn’t felt the obligation not to be choosy, he thinks he wouldn’t have minded anyway. And in bed… Well, Jon is pretty enough that his presence would have been unobjectionable, even if watching him make love to Sansa hadn’t been potent enough to set Willas’s blood aflame.

Which it very much is.

What had she said to him, his lovely wife? How had she broached the topic? Surely Willas must have been taken off guard, even in his cups. Surely he’d balked at least somewhat at her suggestion that they welcome Jon to their bed. The two of them had been raised as siblings, after all, or almost so, no matter that she knows Jon as her cousin now and has for nearly as long as she’d thought him a bastard half-brother. Willas doesn’t remember any objection on his part, though, nor even any surprise. He only remembers the notion of something fitting perfectly into place, the sensation of a fog lifting to leave everything perfectly clear. It made sense that they were lovers. It made sense that they turned to each other after all they’d been through together in the days before Willas knew her, when he’d already left the thought of marrying Sansa Stark behind after Margaery wrote him and told of her Lannister marriage. And maybe after all the war, all the death and pain and struggle, everything else seemed insignificant in the face of little happinesses. Sansa is Willas’s wife, and a dear one at that. To deny her even the smallest pleasure would be unthinkable.

“Do you think it means she finds you less than a whole man?” Margaery asks one day. She’s always known about the three of them, seemingly even before Willas told her; a result of their grandmother’s tutelage in ferreting out even the most closely kept truths, no doubt. It’s a question that might be pointed or sly under any other circumstance, but Willas knows that Margaery asks only with the concern of a loving sister. It’s a reasonable supposition, after all. Perhaps if Willas were another sort of man, he’d have thought such a thing himself. Perhaps if he hadn’t been through all he had in life. Perhaps if he’d never had cause to be grateful for such painfully simple things: a walk through his gardens, slow and crooked but undertaken on his own two feet. The feel of skimming over the ground on a good horse with four good legs, one that runs so fast it almost feels like flying. The sensual generosity of a girl from the North who had consented against all odds to be his wife and who came to his bed with a passion that humbled him. 

Willas remembers her beneath him only the night before, opening herself to him with trusting abandon, her heels at his buttocks urging him on as he stroked inside her again and again. He remembers the way she’d turned her head from him to Jon at her side, and then back again, kissing each of them with equal desire. She’d wanted more, always more, until Willas’s jaw ached and his tongue was so sore from reaching that he urged her to continue kissing Jon as he spent inside her. He’d felt as hot and dazed and delighted as if it were his own mouth on hers. Oberyn had tried to explain it in a letter once, how the act of sharing augmented rather than lessened, multiplied rather than divided. Willas had accepted such an idea without truly understanding it but now he understands, now he _knows_. Together, they are all more than they were. Together they create something new and perfect. In their bed, Willas is as whole and right as he’d ever been.

“No,” he answers at length, smiling to think of it. Margaery will tease him merrily for that smile – for all that is behind it – but Willas doesn’t care. “Not Sansa.”


End file.
